


Life is But a Dream

by rachelindeed



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, soulmates and spirit guides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/pseuds/rachelindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kara takes a psychedelic trip to the Island of Animal Metaphors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is But a Dream

When Kara is thirteen years old, her mother takes her to the Temple of Dreaming. It’s on Gemenon, a full day’s ride from home, and they travel cheap on a crowded shuttle where everyone sitting in front, in back, or beside them seems to have caught the same cold. Kara hunches by the window and imagines the billions of germs in the air meeting up and deciding, drunkenly, to cram themselves down her mom’s throat, because she clearly deserves them.

When they get to the Temple Kara is sulky and rude to the priestess – her skin crawls with the guilt of it, but she can’t stop herself. Her mother is harsh, but the seer, shining gold under makeup and candlelight, is merely distant. She hands Kara a frothing cup, mist pouring across the rim, and says, “Breathe, daughter.”

Instinctively, Kara holds her breath, but her mother’s hand clamps hard on the back of her neck and pushes her face down toward the cup. She gasps, once, twice, and then loses her body. It’s odd.

In her dream she is floating – she moves with the cyclical splash of waves, rising and falling, which confuses her because she can’t feel water. Instead, her skin prickles with heat. It takes time to learn to open dream-eyes, but once she does the white blankness she’s been lost in resolves itself into a rowboat. Her dream-body is a little bit older than her real one, and she’s pleased to see that it’s sporting tattoos. She can’t read the line of writing across her forearm, but she mouths the letters and likes their sound.

The oars are wooden, a little rough, and she can feel their weight all the way down her back as she leans forward and finds her rhythm, dragging herself and her boat through the sea.

For a long time there is nothing at all except rowing. She likes it; she always likes working her body. She’s good at it, and she feels like she’s getting somewhere.

At dusk she spots an island on the horizon, flat and barren. She steers toward it, noting the constellations above so that once it’s full dark she can keep going in the right direction. It is late when she finally drives her raft into the sand, and her arms ache terribly as she pulls the boat up the beach far enough to avoid losing it to the next high tide. That done, she lies down on the still-warm sand and sleeps.

When she wakes, there is a snake coiled across from her, bare inches from her face. Its scales are black, but marked with the diamond pattern that warns of venom.

She holds perfectly still and tries not to wonder what will happen if she dies in this dream.

“You look worried,” the snake comments. Its tongue is long and forked. “Is something wrong? Oh, and good morning.”

Talking snake, Kara thinks. Okay. 

“Are you going to bite me?” she asks, testing her ground. 

“Bite you?” the snake repeats, sounding shocked. “What do you take me for?”

“Well, you look like a copperhead, I think.”

His narrow body ripples, somehow conveying surprise and a hint of irritability. “Do I really?” He slides away from her and over to the water’s edge, rearing back to catch his reflection in one of the still pools under a rock. Kara sits up and watches his head weave back and forth. 

When he turns back to her, he’s much more careful about keeping his distance. “There’s no need to worry. I’m your spirit guide.” He sounds vaguely apologetic.

Kara tenses again. “My spirit guide. You mean, you’re here to give me messages from the gods? About my destiny and the sacrifices I have to make and all that?”

“What?” The snake stares at her. “No. Cheerful, aren’t you? I’m just here to travel with you through your Dream, that’s all. Stop assuming the worst.”

“Habit,” Kara mutters, but she gets to her feet, dusts herself off, and decides this just might be fun.

“All right, spirit guide. Where to?”

“Your choice. You have the power here.”

Kara turns to survey the island. Last night, from the boat, it had looked flat and lifeless, but now there are mountains and forests and, in the distance, snow. 

“Fantastic,” she says, and plunges into the trees.

“I’m sorry to have scared you before,” the snake says, flitting smoothly in and out of the undergrowth at her feet. “I’m not actually a snake, but the Dreamscape twists spiritual truths into metaphors, and animal imagery does seem to be the done thing. Pythia in particular has a taste for vipers that approaches a fetish – it’s kind of disturbing how often she works them in.”

Kara laughs inappropriately and, in a flush of energy, takes a running jump and snags a peach from one of the low-hanging branches above them. It’s delicious. 

“Vipers and stars, they’re her favorites,” the snake continues, keeping pace with Kara easily. “It’s a bit of a pity that she set the terms for supernatural communication, really, because her pet symbolism can get extremely messy. The gods love an excuse to blow up a few suns, you know, and having a serpent-obsessed pyromaniac as their scribe has only encouraged them.”

“If divine messages don’t bite, they explode, is what you’re saying.”

“In a nutshell.”

“Because Pythia liked snakes and fireworks, and the gods were willing to play to their audience?”

“Also, they’re too lazy to expand their symbolic vocabulary. If it worked for your ancestors, it’ll work for you, is generally their attitude.”

“Don’t you have anything nice to say?” They head uphill. “You should be more respectful of the gods; you’re their messenger, after all.”

“I’m not here because of them. I’m here because of you.”

“What?”

“Your soul is my natural habitat.” Since that is the stupidest thing Kara has ever heard, she turns and tells the snake he’s an idiot. He squirms elaborately, clearly feeling like one. 

“Lay off, I can’t help it,” he grouses. “I belong here. I’m not even religious, you know. In waking life, I don’t remember any of this, don’t believe a word of it. But you Dreamed, and your spirit called to mine so I came. As long as we’re both here, I know as much as I need to know to help you. And I’ll start now by suggesting that you turn left rather than right at that cleft of rock up ahead, and that you ignore the cuckoo bird at all costs.”

The rock face in the next clearing is spectacular. It’s a cliff’s edge, cloven in two by a powerful stream that cascades over the hundred-foot drop at Kara’s feet. A path swerves around it, but the left hand turn leads to the cliff edge and empty air. The right hand path winds down to the foot of the waterfall and then straight into the churning maelstrom of water and mist in the pool below.

A red cuckoo bird is perched at the crossroads, its feathers ruffled and ragged. Hints of grey and green and yellow are haphazardly scattered across its wings, and its eyes are blue and unblinking.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for you,” it says, its voice flat and a little bit nasal. It is not a voice to inspire confidence.

“Creepy,” Kara observes.

“Oh, you have no idea,” the snake says.

“I am your true spirit guide,” the bird tells her, hopping from the rock and invading her personal space. It does not take wing, but springs up on the nearest decaying tree trunk, setting itself eye to eye with Kara. “Follow me to the water, and we will swim in the stream.”

“Does it not know that it’s a bird?” Kara asks the snake, exasperated. “It can’t swim. You spiritual-metaphor-people really should take a look at yourselves every now and then before you try to pass out words of wisdom. This is getting ridiculous.”

“It knows what it is,” the snake answers. “It just doesn’t care.”

Kara frowns, edging a bit closer to the edge. “You seriously want me to take the left turn? You have noticed that it leads into thin air, right?”

“The water will whisper to you,” the bird interrupts, single-minded. “It will have your mother’s voice. It will tell you the truth.”

“Okay, first off, ‘having my mother’s voice’ is not actually a selling point. And, hypothetically speaking, if I follow your advice, how will I know I’m getting the truth?” Kara asks.

“Because the truth will be ugly, like me. Painful, like drowning. You can trust that as you can trust nothing else, because you know it’s real. Come to the water with me.”

Kara hesitates, struck by its words.

“I just can’t begin to tell you how unhealthy that is,” the snake says.

“Well, I hate to say it, but his advice makes more sense than yours. At least he’s giving me a realistic option. I can’t follow your path – I can’t fly.”

“Yes, you can. You were born for it.”

“Clearly I wasn’t. I have hands and feet, not wings. I’ve got a better chance of surviving his whirlpool than I do if I just toss myself over the edge. There’s nothing but sky down there.”

“This is your Dream, remember; you have the power. If you want to fly, you can fly. If you want to drown, you can drown.”

“You do have all the power you need,” the bird nods. “The power to fulfill your destiny. Don’t let him lead you astray.”

Kara takes another step forward and finds herself on the cusp of clear blue. The air from the chasm ahead is warm as it tickles her face, but when she looks down she feels dizzy. The snake is coiled at her feet, as close to falling as she is. “Will you come with me?” she asks him.

“I will fly with you, of course.”

“But not drown with me, if that’s the path I choose?”

The snake thinks about it for a long, quiet moment. “No,” he decides.

Kara nods. “That’s asking too much?”

“I would drown with you if that would help you. I absolutely would. But it wouldn’t make the least bit of difference – it wouldn’t save you. So, no. I won’t do it.”

“Not even if I ask you to?”

“Not even then.”

“You won’t let me get you killed?”

“Not without a really good reason. I’m sorry.”

Kara grins. “Don’t be sorry. You’re perfect for me.” She turns and offers the cuckoo bird an easy salute. “No offense, my friend, but flying it is.” 

The bird lets out a shrill, ululating call and bows its head. “You are making a mistake,” he warns. “But you’re very young yet. I can wait.”

With a flutter of wild wings, he returns to the crossroads.

Kara stretches her hand down, and the snake lifts itself to meet her; he winds himself around her arm.

“What do I have to do, to fly?”

“Just jump.”

She stares straight ahead, her breath shallow and fast. “This is insane.”

“That’s why it fits you.” He sounds fond.

“What the hell,” she says, and screams aloud, and leaps.

Flying, it turns out, is the most perfect thing she has ever done. She flips and spins, banks and weaves, and picks up so much speed that the roar of the wind is painful. Always she feels the snake along her arm, clutching tight to her. He shakes with laughter.

They soar for hours, maybe days. It’s better when the stars come out, and they move through the dark, untouchable. She loses all sense of distance.

At last she tires, and they descend, touching down on a grassy plain. She lies flat on the ground, readjusting to gravity, and the long grass stalks itch and poke into her back as her weight bends and breaks them. 

Settling in, she crooks her elbow, drawing the snake close to her face. Its eyes are blue, she notices, which is unusual for a reptile. “What’s your name, snake?”

Still coiled around her arm, he swipes his tail playfully across her wrist. “Guess.”

“I don’t know. Something short and simple, maybe?”

“Good so far.”

“Uh…how about…Zack?”

“Oh, bad choice.”

“Okay. Um…Sam?”

“I vote we end this game now.”

“No, wait, I can get it.”

She looks at him, black and marked with the diamond pattern that warns of venom. A piece of information drops into her mind, as sometimes happens in Dreams. “Adama is a name that means diamond,” she says.

If snakes had eyebrows, his would be raised. “You’re a bit better at this than I expected you to be,” he says. “Specificity is frowned on in the Dreamscape; it might be considered cheating. So keep the name to yourself, if you don’t mind. You can call me ‘snake,’ and I will call you ‘girl,’ and we’ll leave it at that.”

“You can’t guess my name?”

The snake sighs (snakes as a rule sigh beautifully, long and low). “The word ‘girl’ has inspired many names in many tongues, and one of them is Kore. That’s as close as I’m coming, out loud. Now hush before you get us into trouble.”

Fatigue is turning her eyelids heavy, and she feels herself start to drift off. Normally, she’d never consider sleeping with a serpent encasing her arm. But this one is cool and clean and pleasantly sarcastic, and she finds the still weight of his scales across her skin a comfort. Still, there’s always the chance that she might do something stupid, like roll over and squash him in the night.

“Do you often sleep like this?” she asks him.

“Never.”

Her sense of responsibility is dwindling along with her energy, but she takes a last stab at consideration.

“I’m afraid I might hurt you.”

“You might. I know.”

“And if I did, you might bite me back without thinking.”

“True.”

“So, this isn’t the best idea.”

“It isn’t the safest idea,” he corrects her drowsily.

“Then why…”

“You’re warm,” he whispers. “And we’re both here. That’s all that matters.”

They sleep.

Soon enough, the sun begins to rise on the golden, empty field where Kara came to rest.

When she opens her eyes, she is back in the Temple on Gemenon. She feels outraged and absurdly cheated. She didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Her mother tries to interrogate her about her vision, but she’s in no mood to share and the Pythia intervenes quickly, assuring Socrata that her daughter has obviously had a powerful spiritual experience that will take time – perhaps a lifetime – to fully unfold. She asks for a moment alone with the girl.

The two of them sit facing each other across a narrow table, holding hands.

“What have you learned, my daughter?” As ever, the prophetess speaks without inflection.

“I haven’t learned anything,” Kara bites out, letting anger disguise her hurt.

“Haven’t you?”

“There’s nothing I can have that won’t get snatched away from me, whether I like it or not. But I already knew that.”

“Your view of the universe hasn’t changed. Very well. But what have you learned about yourself?”

The Pythia seems prepared to wait forever for her answer, so eventually Kara admits, “I’m good at flying.” 

“Yes, I can see that – you carry the echoes of wind in your blood. And you’ve made a friend, too - I can see that in your heart.”

“An imaginary friend.”

“A spiritual friend. There’s a difference.”

“Not a difference that matters. When I woke up, he was gone.”

“The line between flesh and spirit is not as sharp as you think. When two people have met soul to soul and journeyed together, there is nothing in the waking world that can stand between them.”

Kara is afraid to hope, but she has to ask.

“How can I find him?”

“Be yourself.”

“Be myself? That’s it?” 

The Pythia leans closer, her face solemn, not unkind. “I think you’ll find that’s more than enough. Kara Thrace.”


End file.
